


Comfort

by rileyscott



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Internal Monologue, S01E01
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:53:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6030463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileyscott/pseuds/rileyscott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s amazing, the things that you don’t realize you need until it’s gone. The impact that a kind word, a comforting touch can have to keep the demons at bay and the smoke lifted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*Disclaimer: Most of the dialogue is used from the show. I am just adding Tom Fairfax's perspective to events that have occurred in the show or that I believed happened behind the scenes. I am making no money from this and all of the characters and dialogue belongs to the amazing Public Broadcasting Station (PBS) who has given us many amazing shows.

Chapter 1:

It’s amazing, the things that you don’t realize you need until it’s gone. The noise of the town was deafening. People walking all around me, selling their wares to those who can hear them. The smell of blood and death is in the air and I can’t tell if it’s because of the hospital or if that smell followed me off of the battle field. I can’t help but clench my bag closer to me, it is mine, the last thing that makes me who I am. Without it, I wouldn’t be Tom Fairfax. I don’t know who I would become, but it wouldn’t be who I am now. I’m lying on a stretcher in the middle of the street, simultaneously hoping that someone and no one will notice me. Maybe, if I can’t be Tom Fairfax, I can be no one. I can sink into the earth and worms. 

The screams get louder. The smell of death invades me and the noise, oh god, the screams. Men spilling their guts onto the grass. Begging for their mother to comfort them in their last moments. Boys asking for the one things they will never have in war, comfort. No, no, I’m in Alexandria, there are no gun shots in Alexandria. But the smell of blood is everywhere, it’s choking me, I can’t breathe. 

“What’s your name, Red?” The voice sneaks up on me, the smell lessens and I can breathe again. 

“Fairfax, Tom Fairfax, 17th Virginia Infirmity,” I answer, more out of instinct than anything. I have been asked that over and over, before being left alone again. With George screaming. Is he screaming for me, or is he one of the boys screaming for his mother? I hear him, but I never see him. Is he here? Or will I join him with the worms and dirt that will take me away?

The man doesn’t leave. He motions to someone else, murmuring softly to me, lifting me up. Staying with me. Keeping me away from George, or keeping me safe from him. Is he the one who screams at me?

“This is a Union hospital, yes?” I hear as a woman in gray steps towards me. No not me, the man carrying me, caring for me. “And this man is a Confederate?” The steel lady asks the man. I can’t help but clutch my bag closer to my chest. Of all the people here, she will be the one to steal the last of me. 

“Orders are we take in whoever ends up here,” the man says. Carrying me, caring for me. I do not know if I would show him the same kindness if he was on the floor and I was the one standing. They carry me away from the steel lady, the one who will destroy me without a thought. I can’t help but try to keep her in my sights for as long as possible as they walk me out of the sunlight and into the tomb. The hospital smells of death, rot, and something else. I cling onto the something else, the smell that wasn’t in the battle field. The smell that couldn’t have followed me from the battle. They bring me into a small room in the hospital with other men who are wearing gray, with other Confederates. The colors of their uniforms, gray splashed with red, bring me no comfort. 

The man, no the slave, lowers me onto a bed that is softer and rougher than anything I’ve ever felt. The other one leaves, but the man who asked my name stays, looking at me as I stare at him. He sighs, before moving to the back of the room and filling a cup full of water and bringing it to my lips. 

“Here you go, have some water” he says, tipping the cup slightly, letting the cool water fill my mouth and cool my throat. “You’re okay,” he comforts, before taking the cup away and leaving. I want to cling to that comfort, but the room is filled with corpses who don’t know their dead yet. Am I one of those corpses? The sounds come with the absence of any comfort. Slowly at first. The bustle of the hospital becoming louder and closer to me. Then the screams come, the gasping, the weeping and crying of boys. Brothers I’ve watched die and children I’ve killed. Their screams fill my ears and invade my body, leaving me unable to move, to breathe, to think. 

I don’t know how much time has passed since the slave left. Since the last person showed me comfort. It isn’t until no one talks to you, touches you, or treats you like a human that you realize how much you need it. A comforting gesture, a kind word, anything to help keep the demons at bay. I don’t know if I am asleep or awake. It doesn’t matter anyway, the nightmares follow me into the day, screaming into my ears and dragging me down with them. 

“Excuse me” I hear, not unlike Christmas bells in church. A blessing sent from god above. I gasp, trying to breathe, trying to move. “Tom?” I hear in the distance. What is a voice that sweet doing among all the screams and cries? “Tom Fairfax?” I hear again, this time closer. 

“I can’t breathe,” I tell the voice. How can it speak when there’s no air. How is the voice so calm? “There’s no air.” I state, needing the voice to understand that it's in danger. That bad things are happening. 

“Here, have some water,” the voice says, mimicking the words of the comforter. The man who gave me an ounce of kindness before leaving me in an open tomb. 

Then I see her, in the sun. Alice. What is she doing here? She can’t be here. She can’t know what I’ve done, what I’ve seen. She’s too good, too pure. 

“Alice, is that you?” I ask. She should not be here. She can’t be here.

“No, Thomas, it’s Emma” Alice says, handing me the cup. “Alice’s sister.” And like that, the smoke lifts, the smells lessen and the screams leave. Alice isn’t here, I’m in Alexandria. I once again cling to the unfamiliar smell, hoping that will remind me of where I am not. 

“Sorry, my head,” I search for the words. How do I explain that the death has followed me from the field to my bed? That the smoke from the gun fire ebbs and flows the like the tide of the sea. That there are screams no one else cares about that leave me cringing in fear. “Is not so clear.”

“I’m looking for Frank” Alice/Emma says, touching me, grasping me. There’s no comfort in that touch, but there’s home, familiarity in it, and I can’t help but cling to it. “Was he with you? Frank Stringfellow?” Frank? 

“I don’t remember,” what don’t I remember? The smoke comes again, the screaming pouring into my ears, and I once again hear George. Is he screaming for me or for death? “George was with me. George Hinderson. I lost him in the smoke.” Is he still on the grass surrounded by his guts like so many other boys, or is he back at camp cursing me for not following him? Are his screams for me or because of me?

“It’s okay, Tom” Emma says. The smoke lifts again. I am in Alexandria. “Let me sit with you a while, settle your nerves.” 

Comfort. Kindness. I fall back on my pillows in relief and fear. Comfort from Emma. She runs her hand along my face and shoulder, and it burns and soothes me all at once. “Everything will be better soon.” Nothing will ever be better again. “We can tell all the old stories, from when were children.” I can’t help but nod. I try to mimic her smile, but I feel that I didn’t succeed. Yes, stories from better times. 

“I remember one time you, Frank, and James…” I let her voice wash over me as I relax into the pillows. Maybe her voice will keep the screams away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma tries to help Tom with his 'mental distractions'

The smell. The smell of gunfire and burning flesh. It seeps into your clothes and hair. It follows you from the depths of hell, reminding you where you came from, where you’re going back to. It chokes you, kills a part of your soul, while keeping your body barely alive. 

The first thing I see is smoke covering the ground. Dirt and mud under my finger. Then I feel their hands. On me, pulling at me, grabbing my shoulder, not caring that I had been shot, that I was hurt. I hear their voices, but I can’t make out the words. They’re rough and cruel. Grabbing and laughing at me, pushing and pulling me. And the smell of blood, my blood, the blood of those boys I’ve killed, the blood of my brothers. It’s choking me, killing me as well as any bullet or knife could. I plead with the men to stop, beg them to get off of me before gathering up the strength to shove them away from me. 

I wake up from the dream, the memory, pushing the person grabbing at me away as I back up trying to protect myself from the monsters in my head. 

“Tom!” I hear, and see Alice, my sweet Alice, no not Alice, Emma, I must remember that it's Emma. I see the shock on her face, and the smoke fades. I’m in Alexandria. In the hospital. I must have fallen asleep while Emma told me stories. I feel my lips curl into a smile as I remember those times, before the smoke overcomes me again. 

“Emma,” I breathe, and apology and plea all wrapped in one word. Please don’t leave me alone. I’m not sure that I would be able to survive without someone there. 

“It’s okay,” Emma says, come closer again, sitting on my bed. No it’s not, I think, but I don’t correct her. She is still a woman and she should not be exposed to that kind of truth. Instead I sit there and just try to breath. I must be strong for her, show her that these Union folks haven’t broken me. That I’m not broken. 

My breathes turn into sobs and I can’t help but think about George. Is he here? Or did he make it back to the command? Or worse, is he in a prison camp? There have been rumors of what happens in those camps, ungodly things. And that is where they are going to send me when they can. To a place where hell reigns on Earth and the smell of death never leaves you. I notice that Alice… that Emma is wiping my face with a cloth. I can’t help but turn my face into it, relishing the feel of the soft cotton. 

“I’m scared” I admit to Emma. Since the beginning of the war, I have been scared, terrified. I am unsure of what frightens me the most, dying, kill, the camps, or the life after, living with Alice and staining her with my filth. 

“Shh,” she whispers at me, “Tom, I’m here now.” My lungs release the air that I didn’t know they were holding. “When I go home I’ll tell Alice your back, and she’ll-“ 

“No!” I breath, no Alice cannot know “please, you can’t.” I am no longer above begging. Emma can see what the Union me have done to be, but I cannot let Alice know. I’m unsure if I could survive if she saw me like this, wretched and broken, relying on the comfort of women and enemies. 

“You can’t” I tell Emma, pulling myself closer to her, putting all of my strength in those two words. Begging her to understand. 

“But she has to know you’re alright” Emma says. Alright? But I’m not alright, surely Emma could see that. 

“I don’t want Alice to see me like this” I finally say, unsure if I’m admitting it to her or myself. “Please, promise me.” I beg, grasping her arm. Alice cannot know. Emma looks at me and at that moment I wish I knew what she was thinking. Am I a wretched soul for a Christian girl to save? Or does she understand that a part of Alice’s soul will die here if she comes. All of God’s creatures suffer within these walls. Screaming to be let out, but unable to find their way in the darkness. 

“When you’re ready then,” she consent, her words falling on my ears like a prayer. I lean back in my pillows, my arm aching as I move my body slightly. The pain from the musket ball comes and goes like the wind. I clutch my shoulder, hoping to ease the pain, but knowing no comfort will come. God has abandoned us to our own fates. 

I catch movement in the broken mirror next to my bed and see my shattered reflection staring back at me. My eyes seem dead and I try to remember what I looked like before, when grey was a color that I rarely wore and I could sleep without screaming corpses for company. 

“They say I’m lucky,” I say, remembering the man in blue as he sneered down at me, roughly grabbing at my shoulder and probing the wound. “Shots passed right through me, but still-“

“You’re alive,” Alice… no Emma states. Is this living? “That’s what matters.” Does it? 

“The dreams,” I close my eyes and for a second the screaming, begging, cannons, and gunshots fill the air as I hear a voice calling my name in the distance “the things in my head. Sometimes I know they ain’t real, but other times I lose track.” The voice is still calling my name, screaming at me to follow him. Begging for me to get up. I want to, but I can’t, frozen solid in fear and pain, unable to make my body move to follow George into the mist. “I think he’s right here, telling me which way to go.”

“Who is?” a voice asks. How can she not know. He’s standing here, ordering me to follow him into the fields. 

“George…” but he’s not. He’s not here, Emma is, and it all disappears. Once again, I’m in this stifling room with Emma, the young girl I knew turned into a woman. Her question proves that George is gone, forgotten from this world. How she does not know him, I cannot understand. He has followed me since I left the battlefield. “George Hinderson.” I repeat, turning my head to look at him again. He is always there, standing just out of my vision. 

“Maybe there’s something to give you Tom for your nerves,” Emma says, pulling me from my thoughts. Give me? What can those Yankees give me that could protect me from my thoughts? 

“There’s no medicine for what ails me,” I tell Emma, no longer trying to protect her from the truth. “They don’t understand what’s in my head.” I’m not weak. I now know which things are from the present and which things are from the past. I have figured that out without any of the help from those doctors with their rough hands and cold eyes. “I’ll heal on my own.” I let Emma know. She stopped speaking, staring down at me with a look in her eye that I couldn’t bear to see. 

I turn my head, getting trapped in my thoughts again, letting the warmth of her body keep me grounded in the now. I feel her hand on my face, moving down over my uninjured should, but I can’t turn my head. I cannot bear to see her face at the moment. 

Suddenly, she gets off of the bed and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts and the screams of my loved ones. Suddenly, I hear my mother’s voice in the distance. She’s telling me how proud of me she is that I am going off to fight for Virginia. That she’s proud of the men I’ve killed, of the lives I’ve destroyed. I look around, struggling to see where she is. Wanting to tell her that killing is not something she should be proud of me for. War is not filled with gallant battles and handsome combat. It’s ugly and horrifying, and it's not something a mother should be proud of her son for. She continues talking to me, telling me she’s proud of things she could not know have happened, things that she should never know I did. Please let her not know of the monster I've become. I cover my ears, hoping to block out her voice, but I can’t. 

“Tom,” I hear, Emma rushing over, pulling my hand away from my ears. “Tom, it’s okay, I found a doctor who said that he can help you.” She lowers my hands to my side, softly rubbing them. I can’t help but turn my head towards the other man in the room. He’s looking in his doctor bag for something, not acknowledging either Emma or I. 

“Let’s see what Hale missed” the man said, holding a wooden cylinder in his hand. He put it on my chest before listening to my insides with it. 

“Shortness of breath,” he said, as if he could breathe in this room, “palpitations, sweating.” He moves his hand to my shoulder and I can’t help but try to protect it from him. The last man who touched me there inflicted pain with no comfort or thought. “chest pain.”

“And the mental distractions,” Emma asks.

“Interesting,” the doctor says, turning away from me to talk with her. I clutch my blanket in my hands, unsure if what I’m is feeling anger, fear, or both at the moment. What could this man do for me that I cannot do for myself? “There’s an army doctor in Philadelphia, Jacob Mendez Da Costa, has been studying a malady common among soldiers. Cardiac palpitations precipitated by battle trauma, this boy’s symptoms match up.” The doctor says, barely glancing at me. Acting as if I did not know the cause of my suffocation. “De Costa refers to it as Soldier’s Heart.”

“Well, what can be done for him?” Emma asks, refusing to admit that there is no medicine for men like me. They finally look towards me and I recognize the feel of fear as it coils in my gut. 

“I think I might have something,” the doctors says, putting the wooden cylinder in his bag before walking out of the room. 

Emma and I stare at each other as we wait in silence for the man to return. I couldn’t speak, because if I did I would act in a manner that is not fit for a lady like Emma to see. 

Why? I could not help but think, wishing she could hear my thoughts, why would you bring this man here, tell him my secretes, confide in him. I know that given time I could make myself right. I open my mouth to say this to Emma when the doctor walks in carrying a bottle and a small case. 

“This will help the boy” he says to Emma, once again not talking to me. He opens the case and inside is a small metal cylinder with a sewing needle on the end. He turns to me and says, “I’m going to fill this up,” he said, gesturing to the tool “with Morphine, the liquid in the bottle, then I will inject the drug into then blood stream by sliding the needle into his arm.” 

I see Emma as he fills the needle and the feeling of fear comes back full force. It’s no longer the fear of blood or air, but it’s a very real fear of a very real danger. The grimace on her face shows that she is experiencing the same fears as I. “Isn’t there a treatment a little less invasive?” She asks, and I cannot help but nod in agreement. 

“Morphine works best,” he says, ignoring the intent of her questions. 

“I mean the needle,” she clarifies, either unaware of his deliberate disregard of her intent or refusing to back down. 

“Isn’t there a pill,” I ask, hoping to have less holes in me than I came with. 

“Not with the same efficacy,” the doctor says, grabbing my arm and rolling up my sleeve. I try and will my arm to move, but like back on the battle field, I’m frozen. 

“I feel a lot better now,” I try to reason, realizing that this is going to happen. “Really I am.” I beg. He wants this to happen. He wants to stick me with this needle. 

“Dr. Foster,” I hear a women say, and it takes me a moment to recognize her voice. The steel lady from outside of the hospital. 

“Yes, yes, trampling victim, presently” the doctors says, not letting go of my arm. 

“He is a Pennsylvania Calvary man,” the steel lady follows up. Suddenly I’m back in front of the hospital with only the slave offering me protection against the wrath of this woman. 

“Ms. Finney, do you take issue with the way I’m doing my job?” He asks the steel lady, letting go of my arm, and suddenly I can breathe again. I turn my head to get a look at this ‘Ms. Finney’ and I see no angel or salvation in her face. I hear Emma and the steel lady talking and I let their voices wash over me as I stare at the woman. She seems like a cruel woman who has less compassion for most Southerners than she would for a dying dog in the street. 

I feel the doctor moving away from me, mumbling what might be an apology. I turn towards Emma, watching as she shifts from one foot to the other in discomfort. I cannot remember a time when she was not self-assured, and her discontent only adds to mine. Maybe the steel lady can take the doctor away, but I know that he will return to complete his task. He has the eyes of a child who pulls the wings off a fly just to see what happens. He wants to know what will happen and nothing will stop him from finding out. The voices stop, and he returns to his seat, picking up the needle again and looking at it as one would look at a lover. 

“Oh, Wood Syringe is an excellent device.” I turn my head away from my arm, staring straight ahead, unable to look as he slides that into my skin. I’m trying to breath, swallow down the screams I have building in my throat. I do not know why this frightens me as much as it does, and that frightens me even more. “Developed by Alexander Wood, a Scotsman, and a French Orthopedic surgeon called Pravas,” he continues, and I stop listening. Suddenly, I feel a stabbing in my arm and it takes all of my will to stop from screaming. 

“Count to ten now,” he says, turning away from me. 

“One,” I start, following orders like the good soldier I am, trying to breath as the air suddenly leaves the room “two,” the noises of the hospital begin to fade and the only thing that exists in the world is this room, a purgatory of three. The doctors voice drifts over me, how can he talk so much with so little air? “Three” The world begins the fade, drifting in and out of my vision as the weight on my chest lessons. “Four” is the last thing I remember before the nothingness.


End file.
